


i do not love thee with mine eyes

by pyrrhic_victory



Series: Good Omens Oneshots [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Body Image, Developing Relationship, Drinking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, Impostor Syndrome, Insecurity, M/M, No Smut, Post-Canon, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-06-03 02:29:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19454467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pyrrhic_victory/pseuds/pyrrhic_victory
Summary: In the weeks after the end of the world, Aziraphale and Crowley draw closer together. As their relationship is about to develop further, a conversation about a small insecurity leads to the revelation that Aziraphale has been hiding a much deeper one.





	i do not love thee with mine eyes

**Author's Note:**

> title from Shakespeare, Sonnet 141. The full sonnet + some brief meta about post-heaven Aziraphale is in the end notes.

On the first night of the rest of their lives, an angel and a demon got plastered. They were close together on the sofa, pressed so much closer than the space really required. Aziraphale was looking at his demon with so much adoration that Crowley had no choice but to slam down his glass, announce very loudly the words “I’m going to kiss you, angel,” and then lean forward to do the damn thing before the moment was lost. Aziraphale was warm and soft as he’d expected. He’d gone a little rigid at the first touch, at receiving the thing he’d resigned himself to want from a distance and never have, but beamed and responded in kind once he realised what was happening. 

It kept happening after that, every day for the weeks that passed without event after the Apocalypse. Crowley almost cried when he’d woken up on the sofa in the bookshop to a cup of tea on the table, got up to find his angel and received a kiss and a bright “good morning” the second he found him examining the new books. Then he returned with food and wine and Aziraphale pressed against him as soon as he slid through the door, saying “thank you, thank you” so hard he hoped Crowley would realise it was about more than wine. 

It was good, it was safe. They both enjoyed it. 

And what's more, they hadn't heard anything from Above or Below. It seemed, for the time being, they were alone and unobserved. Free.

“Have you ever thought about sex?” Crowley asked one night, weeks after the end of the world, after they’d gotten into this rhythm of small kisses here and there that turned to long ones at night when they broke out the wine. They were in Crowley’s flat for a change, with him perched on the desk and the angel in his chair, so maybe that was why he felt confident enough to ask. Neither of them were particularly drunk. Aziraphale paused mid-way through a sip of wine and peered up at him over the rim his glass. 

“Thought about it how?”

“You know. Us.” Crowley pointed at him, then at himself, then made an odd wiggling motion with his finger. Aziraphale went red.

“Oh- I- er. Why? Have you?” He asked, in that special way he had of making any question into an accusation. 

Crowley rolled his eyes. 

“Well, obviously, or I wouldn’t have just asked.” 

“Right.” Aziraphale finished the rest of his glass rather quickly, placed it on the table beside Crowley and straightened his bow tie with a kind of finality. 

“You don’t have to. Just thought I’d mention it, you know-“

“Yes.” 

“Yes what?” 

“Yes, I’ve thought about it,” Aziraphale said, because he most certainly had. He rather thought everyone who looked at Crowley must do, at some point or another. 

“And?” Crowley asked, suddenly very still. Was Aziraphale afraid he'd Fall for this?

“And...” Aziraphale stood up and kissed him very slowly and deliberately. His hands started in Crowley’s hair, but found their way down to his thighs as he leaned further forward. “I think it would be rather lovely.” 

Crowley wrinkled his nose to hide his relief. 

“Not if you talk like that, it won’t.” 

Aziraphale smiled smugly against his lips. If he was afraid, he wasn't showing it. 

He wasn’t shy about touching, either. He let his hands slip under Crowley’s shirt and trail up and down his back before pulling it off. There was so much he could do now, so much he could run his hands over and he had an eternity to do it in, but he _wanted wanted wanted_ to do it all now. He leaned forward, nose against Crowley’s neck, breathing hard as he closed his eyes and just touched. 

Crowley undid the buttons of Aziraphale’s waistcoat and his hand slipped quickly beneath, sliding across his side to rest against his back. Half-way into another fierce kiss, Aziraphale realised that there was only his shirt between Crowley and his own flesh. It really hadn’t occurred to him until this very moment that Crowley might want to touch him as thoroughly as he wanted to touch Crowley. It also hadn’t occurred to him that this fact would make him feel sick. His hands dropped to clasp Crowley’s forearms, gently so it didn’t seem odd, and he kept kissing him. 

Crowley reached forward again, and this time he panicked and tightened his grip just enough to push him back. Just enough for Crowley to notice. 

“Something wrong?” He asked, looking up with those golden eyes full of something he didn’t understand. “Changed your mind? They're not watching, angel. Really, they're not.” 

It still hung unspoken between them that Aziraphale had yet to Fall. It wasn't a certainty - this long after Armageddon, it seemed they'd been forgotten - but it was still a possibility that neither of them could shake off. Crowley dreaded it more than anything, and he dreaded bringing it up almost as much. He knew talking about it would just make Aziraphale anxious, and the thing itself...well, it would break him completely. All he could hope was that they'd be together if it happened. Falling had been an excruciatingly lonely thing, and he'd be damned again if he let Aziraphale go through it alone, if it came to that. 

“What? Er- no. It’s not that.” His hands slipped down to hold Crowley’s now, and he looked down at them. His were awkward, fumbling. Crowley’s were thinner, more elegant. 

“It’s just- are you really sure you don't mind having me?”

“Mind? What is there to mind?” Crowley’s voice rose high in exasperation. He leaned in to kiss him, but Aziraphale panicked again and spoke before he could. 

“Well, it’s just- this corporation isn’t pretty, like yours. It does the job, that’s all.” Aziraphale dropped his hands and drummed his fingers together awkwardly, only glancing up at Crowley for brief moments before looking away again. 

“Pretty?” Crowley’s voice scraped even higher. 

“Yes, well.” Aziraphale fiddled with the bottom of his waistcoat. “You must know what I mean. I’m hardly what you’d consider attractive. Understandable if you didn’t really want to-“ 

“I was just about to have sex with you!”

“Yes, I rather thought you were.” 

“So what’s the problem?” Aziraphale glanced down at himself. Crowley stood up properly and looked at him, concern now accompanying his frustration. “You’re serious. You really- you’re actually worried about this?” Aziraphale shrugged awkwardly and Crowley made an odd strangled noise. “For Heaven’s- you think I’d ask if I didn’t want you?”

“Well, I suppose not. But perhaps you hadn’t considered how...unattractive the parts you can’t see might be.” 

“What are you talking about? Whatever bloody parts you’ve got are attached to _you_. Of course I’m attracted.” Aziraphale gave him a confused look and Crowley wondered if he'd actually gone mad. Hadn't he ever looked in a mirror? In what world was Aziraphale not the most beautiful thing anyone had ever seen? 

“Right, yes. Of course. Er- carry on, then?” He flashed a smile and let his hands wander back up to Crowley’s arms. He didn’t want to spoil this. He pressed a kiss to his shoulder.

“This really bothers you, doesn’t it?” 

“What? No. Of course not. A silly thing, that’s all.” Aziraphale wouldn’t look at him now. 

“Aziraphale.” Crowley rested one hand on his shoulder, holding him back so he could look at him properly when he spoke. The other came up to stroke his jaw. “Do I need to spell it out for you?”

“Er.” His voice wavered. He blinked pleadingly at Crowley. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

“I am - very obviously, I might add - attracted to you. I know what you look like, and I happen to like it. As such, I would very much like to touch you without being impeded by six layers of clothing from 1882.” 

“Ah. Right. I see.” He nodded sagely. Crowley sighed. Aziraphale nodding sagely was generally a sign he was not being sage at all. 

“You don’t see. What is it?”

Aziraphale sighed, chewing his lip. 

“It’s just- oh, it’s silly. I just thought, you know, I might look alright from a few feet away, but if you really got up close you’d see that- well. I’m not what you thought.” 

“I’m up close now.” Crowley leaned even closer and cupped his face with both hands. 

“ _Crowley_.” Aziraphale‘s eyes drifted closed, and he pressed his forehead gently against Crowley’s. Crowley could practically feel his frown forming, the uncertainty in the way he still held himself back. 

“This isn’t just about looks, is it?“ He murmured. Aziraphale gave an uncomfortable, breathy laugh. “Talk to me.” 

Aziraphale felt as though he might cry. He wanted to collapse onto Crowley’s chest, to wrap his arms around him and press his face into his shoulder and pretend he was alright. But he couldn’t open himself to Crowley like that. He didn’t deserve to.

He breathed slowly. 

“I suppose I’m- I’m just worried that you don’t know what you’re getting into. With me, that is.” 

“What on Earth does that mean? I know you better than anyone in the universe.” Aziraphale gave him a tight, guilty smile. 

“Perhaps. I might be being silly, but all this time, you’ve been looking at me from a few feet away, as it were. And since the end of the world, you’ve been getting closer and closer. And I suppose I’m just afraid that once you get too close, you’ll realise that I’m not at all what you think I am.” 

“What is that supposed to mean?” Crowley leaned back and Aziraphale had to fold his arms to stop himself reaching out for him again. 

“I told you it was silly.” 

“What do you think is so awful about you that, after six thousand years, I’m going to see it and run?” 

Aziraphale swallowed. His throat was dry. 

“I would have killed that boy. Adam. I would have done it.” 

“I know. I talked you into it. And it would have destroyed you.” 

“No. Not like it would for you.” Crowley frowned. He’d been by Aziraphale’s side before the Flood, at the Crucifixion, at a hundred unnamed wars and deaths and massacres in Heaven’ name. And he’d never seen him take a life with his own hands, nor watch one end without mourning it. 

“What?”

“I could have justified it. One life to save the universe. I’d never forget it, of course, but I could live with it. You, though. I know you never could. You’re much too good for that.”

Crowley couldn’t bring himself to speak when so much was wrong that he’d apparently completely missed. Aziraphale sank to the ground, leaning against the cold desk and hunching his back rather than sitting in the chair.

“Wouldn’t it be funny if you were the good one, and I was the bad one?” Aziraphale whispered. Crowley dropped from the desk and crouched right beside him. Aziraphale drew his knees up to his chest like a barrier between him and everything else. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Angel. Neither of us have to be good or bad anymore.” 

“But that’s the way it is, don’t you see? I’m not just a bad angel, Crowley. _I am bad_." The words broke him to admit, they hurt and he couldn't bear to look at Crowley any longer. "I’ve spent so long pushing you away, keeping you at arm’s length, so afraid you’d see through me that I never realised how selfish it was to keep pretending, to keep letting you think there was anything in me worth loving.” 

Crowley stared at him as he spoke those words so factually, with such resignation, like there was nothing there to dispute. He sat properly on the cold floor of his flat, and tried not to panic. How on earth could his angel - his perfect, annoying, divine angel - believe he wasn’t worthy of love? And how on Earth was he - a panicking, inexperienced, infernal demon - going to convince him otherwise? He did what he always did when he couldn’t think of what to do: argued with Aziraphale. 

“That’s bollocks,” he said, as quietly and gently as he could, but he couldn’t keep the fear out of his voice, fear that he was going to mess this up and lose him. Aziraphale winced. 

“Is it?” His voice was soft, quiet. Resigned. 

“Yeah, it is. Er- how long have you felt like this?” Crowley wasn’t equipped for this. He’d never seen Aziraphale so miserable, so unsure of himself. He’d thought there might be a bit of a bad patch, after the Angel finally realised that his belief in the virtue of Heaven was misplaced, but not like this. He’d hoped it would have made him more confident, in fact, once he’d realised that the judgement of the other angels was a pointless standard to hold himself to. But now he’d turned all that judgement inwards. 

“I think I’ve always known. I just didn’t want to believe it. The Almighty made me, after all, so how could I be truly, properly bad? But all this Antichrist business, the war...it started to become very clear that I’m...” he shrugged helplessly. 

“That you’re unloveable.” Crowley’s voice went cold. 

Aziraphale let out a noise halfway between a whimper and a groan and looked away. His eyes began to burn. This was it, then. Crowley had finally seen him for what he was, and he was going to drag him to his feet and throw him out of his flat and say quite calmly that he didn’t particularly want to see Aziraphale ever, ever again, if he didn’t mind. He was to be alone for the rest of eternity. He might even deserve it. 

“Yes. Quite.” 

“That’s bollocks,” Crowley said again. 

“Crowley-“ Aziraphale looked back up in alarm. 

“No, it is. You’re so completely wrong that it’s actually unbelievable.” Crowley turned around so his back was against the desk beside him. “Come here.” He opened his arms and beckoned. Aziraphale stared at him, blinking tears out of his eyes in confusion. “Come on, you idiot. Get over here.” Crowley beckoned again. 

Aziraphale swallowed and decided that if this was the last chance he had to be close to Crowley, he was going to take it, whether he ended up throttling him or not. He unfolded himself very slowly and leaned closer so Crowley could wrap his arms around him. His head ended up pressed against Crowley’s bare chest, and he almost recoiled out of awkwardness, but Crowley’s hand nudged him gently closer as he stroked his hair. He felt an overwhelming wave of shame, and realised he was probably going to cry on him. They sat like that for a moment, just breathing and trying to figure out what on Earth to say. 

“I’m afraid I rather ruined the moment, didn’t I?” Aziraphale offered. Crowley snorted. 

“There’ll be others.” He had one arm tightly around his angel, and while Aziraphale covered one hand tightly with his, the other played with his white hair. Aziraphale breathed in sharply. 

“Will there?” 

“I’m not leaving you, idiot. Whatever stupid ideas you’ve got about yourself in that stupid, clever head of yours, I know you better.” Crowley’s hand was warm in his hair. 

“What if you only think you do?” He whispered. “What if I’m evil, Crowley? I’d never know. You don’t Fall for being evil - you’re proof of that. After what I did, I really don't know what you _do_ Fall for these days."

“If you were evil, you wouldn’t spend all this time crying on the bloody floor worrying about it,” Crowley pointed out. He worried for a second that he’d been too harsh, but Aziraphale made a sound that was something like a laugh. 

“I suppose I wouldn’t.” He closed his eyes; they were so close together that Crowley could feel his eyelashes flickering against his chest. “But that doesn’t mean I’m good.” 

“Means you’re trying to be. Which I think is meant to be the point.“ 

Aziraphale let himself relax, just a little, sagging against Crowley. He was still hyperaware of his weight pressing against Crowley’s bony legs, of his damp face against his chest, but somewhere in the midst of it he came out the other side of whatever tunnel he’d been in. 

“I am sorry,” he said. 

“What for?” 

“Making such a mess of myself. This is really very undignified of me. Utterly embarrassing.” He forced a laugh and Crowley snorted. “I should be able to deal with these things on my own. Not cry all over you just before we were about to make love. It’s frightfully rude of me.” 

“ _Make love?_ ” Crowley incredulously repeated. His voice shot up again. “You really are a relic.” Aziraphale frowned. 

“Well, what would you call it?” 

“Sex, Aziraphale. It’s called having sex. And I’d rather you didn’t, you know.” 

“What, have sex? You seemed very keen on it five minutes ago.” Crowley rolled his eyes. 

“Not that. I’d rather you didn’t try to deal with things on your own. Because that’s how we end up on the floor moping about things that could’ve been sorted out if you’d talked to me about it before you fell apart like this.” 

“Difficult to bring up, I suppose,” Aziraphale mumbled, and huddled closer to him. He still felt largely pathetic, but he could pretend he didn’t if he closed his eyes and thought very hard about nothing at all. 

“You do know you’re not unloveable, right?” Crowley said, after a while. 

Aziraphale opened his eyes again. 

“What’s that, dear?” 

“You’re fussy, and condescending, and stubborn. You’re about as observant as a paperclip, you‘re unbelievably pedantic about road traffic laws, you dress like it’s still the 1940s-“ 

“Yes, _thank you_ , were you approaching a point somewhere in there?” Aziraphale pointedly said. Crowley took it as a victory that he was willing to defend himself with sarcasm again. 

“My point,” Crowley said, with a very laboured voice, because this was a very difficult conversation for a demon to have after repressing his feelings for six thousand years, “is that there are a lot of things about you that drive me up the bloody wall, and I’m still here. I know perfectly well what I’m getting into with you. I have done for millennia. So just do me a favour and stop worrying. I’m not going anywhere.” 

Aziraphale slowly pulled himself up so he could look properly at Crowley again.

“I love you, too,” he said. His voice was dry and low, painful from all the crying he’d been trying very hard not to do. Crowley opened his mouth and a lot of nonsense sounds came out. 

“I- Er- I didn’t-“ 

“You didn’t have to.” His whole being had been sapped of energy. All he really wanted to do was kiss Crowley once again and go to sleep. He did the first thing easily enough, very slowly, so he knew that everything would be alright in the end. His hands shook a little with uncertainty as he laced them carefully with Crowley’s. 

“ _In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes_ ,” he murmured, knowing Crowley would cringe and doing it despite that - and somewhat because of it. “ _For they in thee a thousand errors note; But 'tis my heart that loves what they despise, Who in despite of view is pleased to dote_.” 

“Now he’s quoting bloody Shakespeare at me.“ Crowley rolled his eyes but watched Aziraphale with a fond expression. “Well? What’s all that supposed to mean?” 

“It means that it doesn’t matter what I look like. You like it anyway because it’s me.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows.

“Isn’t that what I said?” He asked, a little offended. Aziraphale fiddled with his hands. 

”Yes, well, perhaps I need a little time between hearing something and being able to understand it.”

Crowley snorted. 

“Next time I’ll say it in Shakespeare then, shall I?” 

“Worth a shot,” Aziraphale smiled, still feeling awkward and guilty and a lot like he’d flayed himself raw. 

“And the other thing?” Crowley said, trying not to sound too hopeful. He didn’t want to put pressure on him when he already seemed so fragile he might snap. He wasn't used to this, to stepping around Aziraphale's despair like the edge of a pit and trying not to push him over the edge. 

“A little time,” Aziraphale reminded him. “I have much to repent for that I have not yet repented.” 

“There’s no rules for us anymore. Fallen or not, you don’t have to apologise to Heaven.” 

“Heaven? I don't care about Heaven!"

Crowley's heart nearly stopped then and there. After everything, after honest-to-Someone millennia of balancing one and the other, Aziraphale had finally made a choice and by Someone, he was sticking with it. Crowley gawked at him, and smiled, soft but sad.

"It’s not Heaven I need forgiveness from.” 

Aziraphale kissed him again. Crowley could feel his damp cheeks, the tears still sitting in his eyelashes, the soft desperation behind the fingers that curled up so gently at the base of his throat. 

_I’m sorry_ , his touch said. _Please_. 

Crowley wanted more than anything to say that it was alright. That whatever it was Aziraphale was apologising for, he didn’t care. He didn’t need forgiving. If it was for this breakdown, or for taking so long to be ready to love him, or for being unattractive, or for leaving him alone on that bandstand the day before the world ended, for refusing to help, for refusing to run away, for trusting Heaven over him. Crowley wanted more than anything to kiss him on the forehead and say, ‘don’t worry about any of it, Angel. I don't care. I love you, you're perfect, you're beautiful. Don't think for a second that I care about anything except you.’ But he couldn’t. That wasn’t what Aziraphale needed. 

So instead, he kissed him and held him and said, “I forgive you.” And it sounded almost the same. 

**Author's Note:**

> title and quote from Shakespeare, Sonnet 141: 
> 
> In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes,  
> For they in thee a thousand errors note;  
> But ‘tis my heart that loves what they despise,  
> Who, in despite of view, is pleased to dote;  
> Nor are mine ears with thy tongue’s tune delighted,  
> Nor tender feeling, to base touches prone,  
> Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited  
> To any sensual feast with thee alone:  
> But my five wits nor my five senses can  
> Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee,  
> Who leaves unswayed the likeness of a man,  
> Thy proud heart’s slave and vassal wretch to be.  
> Only my plague thus far I count my gain,  
> That she that makes me sin awards me pain.
> 
> post-fic thoughts:
> 
> I think Aziraphale's self-esteem is tied deeply to his perception of Heaven's moral superiority. It's how he can cope with the horrors he has to watch committed in Heaven's name, why he's so adamant that he could stop the war if he just spoke to the right angels. Being an angel means that if he questions himself, or Crowley questions him, he has an answer - he must be doing the right thing, he's an angel, he's working for God. So when he loses faith in that ideology and leaves Heaven behind, there will be repercussions for the way he views himself. 
> 
> As for his appearance- he does take pride in his clothes, but I don't think Aziraphale really bothers much about his actual body until Gabriel mentions it, and as a celestial being with the possibility of changing corporations, any physical insecurity he has is most likely going to be a lesser concern than his emotional insecurities, since his body isn't really his own in the way a human body is. In this fic he's worried about Crowley's perception of him more than anything, and the issue arises because he's right there, looking at him, about to see him exposed for the first time. - Alex


End file.
